


In This Summer Heat, Anything Could Happen

by TeaGirrl



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Dry Humping, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Summer, Swimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 06:50:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaGirrl/pseuds/TeaGirrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A heatwave reaches Camelot and the boys decide that the best way to cool off is a trip to the lake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In This Summer Heat, Anything Could Happen

It is the kind of heat wave that arrives with no warning. The kind that suddenly clings to your skin one morning and refuses to let go. It is the kind of heat that cannot decide between a caress and a stifling hold. The kind of heat that encourages bodies to touch, and then forces them to wash these touches from their skin when the layer of sticky sweat beneath their clothes becomes too much to bear.  

It is too hot for chores and it is too hot for training. Getting anything done is a task too difficult to comprehend, too demanding to initiate. The days consist of hunting for shade and chasing it as it travels across the grounds of the citadel.

The smell of cool grass is lulling them to sleep as they lay beneath the shelter of an oak tree, their heads turned so their cheeks can rest against the lush ground and the laces on their shifts undone, their sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Merlin had left his neckerchief and jacket in his room before arriving in Arthur’s chambers that morning. Arthur had stared at the sharp collarbones that were now on display and Merlin had tried to suppress a smirk.

Arthur had downed two goblets of water before declaring that he was too warm to be inside and ordered Merlin to join him outside. Merlin had groaned, protested, saying it was even hotter outside. But Arthur hadn’t listened and had briskly walked out of his chambers, not waiting to check if Merlin was following him. They both knew he would.

And Arthur hadn’t said anything as he’d gestured for Merlin to lie down in the shade, waiting until he’d shimmied slightly, making himself comfortable, before joining him, settling his head on Merlin’s stomach and crossing his arms and ankles.

Merlin had tried sitting up, asking Arthur what the hell he was doing, why-

“You’re my servant, Merlin. Do your job.” He’d closed his eyes and it might have just been the angle, but Merlin could have sworn he saw Arthur’s lips curl up into something that resembled a content smile.

So Merlin had settled back down, looking up at the green canopy above his head as he felt Arthur fidget and then go still, the weight of his head morphing into a comfortable reassurance that he was still there, even when Merlin closed his eyes.

He doesn’t know when he’d decided to thread his fingers through Arthur’s hair, scratching his scalp, letting the locks glide through his fingers in a never-ending cycle. But Arthur hadn’t said anything. It’d sounded like he’d drifted somewhere between dreams and their warm and unrelenting reality, for he’d just hummed in the back of his throat before going silent once more.

Merlin doesn’t know how long they’ve been lying there. Breaks in the canopy above them have cast several collages of shadows across their faces and the air seems to have somehow become _even more_ stifling, even more _there_. The skin on his stomach where Arthur has been lying is too hot and his hair is sticking to his forehead. His fingers in Arthur’s hair have grown still, too lazy with the heat to move.

And Merlin can’t stand it anymore.

He ruffles Arthur’s hair - his eyes still closed - gently at first, and then more forceful when he doesn’t stir.

“Arthur! Arthur, Arth- Oi! Dollophead! Get up! We’re going on a quest.”

Arthur blinks a few times, and Merlin can’t help but smile at the confused expression on Arthur’s face as he slowly pieces together where he is, whom he’s with.

“What quest?” Arthur mumbles, slowly sitting up, letting Merlin’s fingers slide from his hair. Even though Merlin’s hand is clammy, he already misses the feel that is Arthur, the closeness that only comes with years of trying and feigned insults and affection neither of them talk about.

“The quest for relief from this bloody _heat_.” He heaves himself to his feet, trying hard to ignore the way his shift is sticking to his back.

This time it is he who leaves Arthur, not waiting for him to join him. Because they both know he will. He makes his way towards the stables and turns to see Arthur clumsily getting to his feet. His white shift is slightly see-through when the light hits Arthur from behind, and Merlin tries his best to ignore the outline of his torso, the feathery hint of golden hair on his chest.

It takes Arthur a few steps before he establishes the regal swagger he prefers when striding about the castle. The heat must have gone to his head.

Merlin chuckles as he hears Arthur hurry to catch up behind him, sounding very much like a child as he shouts,

“Merlin! Wait for me, Merlin. Where are we even _going_?”  

 

 

*     *     *

 

Arthur hasn’t noticed the way Merlin’s eyes have flashed gold after every turn, how the magic that binds him to the earth and the sky is helping him search for certain relief; water. The clear kind that invites you to come closer, to take a deep breath before succumbing to its suffocating embrace.

The horses are sweating beneath them, their pace sluggish, and Arthur is starting to complain, mumbling about how this is the most idiotic idea Merlin has had since that one time he suggested Arthur carry his own dirty dishes back down to the kitchen, saying he could do with the exercise. The look on Arthur’s face had been worth the ringing in his ears after Arthur’s goblet had bounced off his skull as it was thrown across the room as he’d made a hasty retreat.

“We’re soon there,” Merlin assures him. Arthur doesn’t mention that that’s the third time he’s said that, too hot to argue and tease.

The silence is eventually broken after the dense forest clears and something sparkles through the spaces between the branches and leaves up ahead, when Merlin announces that they’re there.

He leans against a tree trunk as he waits for Arthur to dismount and slowly make his way over to him. His shirt is sticking to his chest and his neck is shimmering with sweat. Merlin wonders idly how salty it would taste on his tongue, if he were brave enough to delicately swipe his tongue across the skin.

“It’s a lake?” Arthur says, phrasing it like a question, sounding confused.

“Well done, Sire. It _is_ a lake.”

“Shut up, Merlin. You mean to tell me that we’ve been riding God knows how long so you could show me _a large puddle_?”

Merlin can’t help but snort. He should’ve known.

“It’s not a puddle, dollop head. This will cool us down.”

Arthur scrunches his nose. “Couldn’t we have just taken a bath back in Camelot?”

Merlin makes his way toward the grassy shore of the lake, yelling over his shoulder, “It’s not the same, Arthur!”

He kicks off his boots and socks and wriggles his toes as they settle in the warm grass, breathing in the freshness and peace and crystal-like purity that seems to radiate from the water’s still surface. The woods surround the lake. It’s a hidden clearing of soothing wonder amidst a woods filled with bandits and cursed valleys.

He unbuckles the belt that cinches his shift around his waist, discarding it on the ground beside him. He turns and sees that Arthur is still standing in the shade of the trees, watching him. And it may just be the lighting that makes his eyes seem darker than usual.

“Are you coming, Arthur?” he calls.

Arthur glances around nervously before making his way towards Merlin. He looks so unsure of himself, so unlike him.

When he finally reaches Merlin’s side, Merlin continues shedding his clothes, pulling his sticky shift over his head and folding it haphazardly. Arthur’s gaze is flickering between his face, his chest and the vast water in front of them.

“What’s wrong, Arthur?”

“Nothing,” he responds quickly, dismissively.

And Merlin raises his eyebrow, quirking the corner of his mouth, knowing what Arthur will say next.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

And Merlin also knows that he won’t have to wait long before Arthur says what’s bothering him. This is the way they work. Arthur vents of his own accord. And Merlin speaks his mind or offers comfort or remains silent.

“I’ve never swum before.” His confession is faint, still halfway contained. If it weren’t for the stillness around them, Merlin wouldn’t have been able to make out the words.

“You don’t know how to swim?” Merlin can’t suppress his smile, no matter how hard he tries. The thought of Arthur – brave, noble, always first in line on the battlefield – not being able to _swim_ seems complet-

“Of course I know how to swim!” he snaps, huffing, “I just haven’t swum in…” He waves his hand dismissively towards the expanse of water in front of them.

And now Merlin can’t contain his laughter, not even when Arthur glares at him, saying it isn’t funny, that if Merlin doesn’t stop laughing he’ll force him to clean-

“All right, all right!”

Merlin’s grin doesn’t fade, even when the silence stretches between them.

“It’s exactly the same, you know,” Merlin says, his eyes watching a lone swan land by the water’s edge across from them. “As taking a bath.”

“I know.”

Merlin looks at him from the corner of his eye, and his shoulders still seem slightly tense, a faint line visible between his brows. He’s gotten so used to wanting to soothe Arthur when he’s like this, that the random thought of wanting to kiss that line away doesn’t even surprise him. But that would be crossing a line much more relentless than the one between Arthur’s brows, one they’ve both been drawing subconsciously over the years. And even though some moments and touches try to erase it, something always manages to etch it further into the dirt between them and on the skin they wear.

This is just the way they work.

“Come here.”

Arthur takes a hesitant step toward him and Merlin reaches out to unbuckle his belt the way he always does when he undresses Arthur. He doesn’t know why he’s doing it now, when they’re outside Camelot’s walls and the titles that separate them seem a little fuzzier, a little less important. Maybe he’s hoping some normalcy will make Arthur feel better.

_Always for Arthur…_

He looks at Arthur pointedly until Arthur huffs and raises his arms, allowing Merlin to pull the shift over his head. He doesn’t reach for the laces of his breeches. It’s an unspoken rule between them.

Instead he merely asks “Ok?” before stepping back, giving Arthur space. His hands start fumbling with his own breeches, and he jumps when Arthur’s hand suddenly reaches out to still his fingers. He looks up, eyes wide, and sees Arthur’s pleading look, a minute shake of his head, silently asking him _Please, don’t._

So he doesn’t.

He lets his hands fall to his sides and chooses not to ask _Why do you look like you’re hurting?_

“Ready?” he asks.

“Stop sounding like we’re going into battle, Merlin. It’s just a lake.” He saunters past him towards the water, their shoulders brushing. Merlin just rolls his eyes.

Arthur bends down to kick off his boots and roll up the legs of his trousers. Merlin shoves him playfully as he passes him, and walks into the soothing water, the water sloshing around his calves, a dark stain quickly travelling up his legs as he walks further and further out. Soon the water is up to his waist. He lets the palms of his hands lightly trail across the surface, relishing in the cool relief from the thick heat.

He runs a wet hand through his hair, little droplets escaping down his temples, and he turns to look at Arthur who is still standing by the edge, dipping his toes in cautiously. He reminds Merlin of a child who wants to be brave, wants to leap into the unknown, but still can’t take the final step that separates them from the edge.

“There aren’t any leeches, are there?” Arthur calls out to him.

Merlin chuckles. “There might be. But I won’t let them hurt you.” He’d meant to say it as a joke, but the words feel a lot heavier as they leave his mouth. And Arthur must have sensed this heaviness too, because he looks up and his mouth is slightly open and his eyes are full of wonder.

And Merlin doesn’t try to joke and gives in to sincerity when he then says: “Trust me.”

And he must have said it like those times he’s asked Arthur to put himself on the line for him. Or those few times Merlin has said words of encouragement when Arthur can’t find them himself. Or those even fewer times Merlin says something and he watches Arthur realize yet again that Merlin might actually love him a little bit.

Because now Arthur is striding towards him, stumbling over the water that seems to be pushing back, trying to keep them apart. And soon the water is up to his waist too and Merlin realizes belatedly that they are both half naked and drops of water are clinging to Arthur’s skin and he wants to reach out and touch.

But he blames it on the heat, how it’s made him delirious, and he shoots Arthur a grin before diving forward, letting the lake engulf him.

The water fills his ears and washes away the sweat that he hasn’t been able to get fully rid of since the heat wave started a fortnight ago. The water is remarkably clear, and Merlin can make out the stones and tufts of grass that decorate the bottom as he swims further and further out, the fire in his lungs spurring him on.

He emerges briefly for air but quickly lets himself sink back down, wondering if he is able to touch the bottom; if these thoughts of Arthur will disappear when all he can think about is the pressure in his ears and the way the world looks when looking up from underneath the surface.

His vision is slightly blurry, and he’s trying to make out the secrets he knows are in this lake, far in the distance, when he feels water suddenly swirl across his shoulder blades. He uses his arms and legs to turn around and drifts backwards to see Arthur floating right in front of him, his hair swirling around his face, small bubbles of precious air occasionally leaving his tightly pressed lips.

The water suddenly seems a bit clearer, and as they both float, suspended amidst beautiful and dangerous water, swimming and sinking in equal turns, Merlin gets a feeling that anything could happen.

And something does happen; the moment when Arthur’s face adopts a determined edge and he reaches out and hooks his fingers under the waistband of Merlin’s breeches and pulls, dragging Merlin weightlessly toward him until they’re chest to chest, catching him with his mouth.

It’s chaste and just a press of lips and Merlin is already in need of air, but he never wants to stop.

The lake has turned their skin and lips the same temperature, dimming the kiss, subduing the fire they both know would ravage them had they been above the surface. And it would seem Arthur is in search of this fire, because soon he pulls away and grabs Merlin’s arm, guiding him up for air, up for more.

Merlin is gasping for air, having momentarily forgotten that a world existed at all above the liquid mirror that had hidden them for a short while. The bottom is a few feet below them. They are treading water, and Arthur’s head bobs up and down slightly - the water swallowing his jawline when it wants Arthur closer – as he just watches Merlin, eyes wide. Merlin can hear his thoughts in the rippling of the water around them. _What have I done?_

He abruptly uses his legs to propel himself backwards, trying desperately to create some distance between them, before turning and crawling towards the shore, leaving Merlin trying to keep himself afloat in a lake that is making it harder for them to breathe, to speak, to admit.

Arthur’s feet can finally reach the bottom and water runs off his back and breeches as he lumbers through the water. He doesn’t stop until Merlin stops him with a firm hand on his shoulder. The water is up to their thighs and his hair is in his eyes and why won’t Arthur just _look at him?_

“Arthur, wh-“

“Don’t, Merlin. Just… just don’t.”

Here they are again; trying their best to bury and forget. It’s a skill they’ve perfected. And Merlin is sick of it.

“No. You don’t just get to decide that we’re not even going to _acknowledge_ this.”

Merlin can feel Arthur tense.

“You’re a servant, Merlin. You can’t tell me what to do.”

Merlin convinces himself that it has to be said; that some fucking honesty and just voicing what they’re thinking would actually do them some good, as he boldly asks, “Only a servant? Is that what you tell yourself?”

At this Arthur winces and turns his head a fraction, his gaze downcast, watching the water ebb around Merlin’s legs.

“I… I try to, anyway,” he murmurs.

Now Merlin knows he’s peeled away the first layer that Arthur puts up after moments of them being too close, too close to be dismissed as nothing but platonic. But he’s intent on getting rid of all the layers. Even the ones he himself wears.

“Arthur, look at me.” He shakes his shoulder gently. And he does, and Arthur looks confused and exposed and brave and beautiful, with rivulets of water travelling down his collarbones and neck, and hair that’s a shade or two darker than when it’s dry.

“Why do you keep doing this to yourself? To us?”

“Because it’s not fair to either of us. Nothing could come of it, and I never want to see you hurt.” Somehow Merlin’s hand drifted of it’s own accord from Arthur’s shoulder to the crook of his neck, slippery fingers grasping for purchase on wet skin. And maybe Arthur too hasn’t noticed how his fingers have moved to encircle Merlin’s wrist, holding it like his bones are delicate.

“Don’t you see, Merlin? This can only end in tears. And you deserve better than that.”

Merlin’s thumb rubs soothing circles on Arthur’s jaw as he leans in, his forehead resting against Arthur’s, the tips of their noses brushing, their sighs mingling.

“A few tears never killed anyone,” Merlin whispers, watching Arthur intently, waiting for the moment when he’ll realize that Merlin couldn’t leave him or stop whatever this is even if he wanted to. And there it is – Arthur’s lips part and his eyes spark with something that resembles relief and love. It’s glorious and Merlin will treasure that look in years to come, when keeping secrets makes loving each other tougher and all the more worthwhile.

His lips graze Arthur’s, the touch barely-there, yet the ache for more it leaves behind is very much there, before kissing the corner of his mouth, his Cupid’s bow, and then his lips.

Now Arthur’s lips are warmer and he can taste his breath on his tongue. It’s more, and at the same time not enough. And Arthur seems to feel the same way, because the stillness that comes with hesitancy is replaced by a hunger that Merlin relishes in. Arthur presses back and licks along the seam of Merlin’s lips, asking and begging and demanding. The hand that isn’t grasping Merlin’s wrist encircles his waist, pulling them chest to chest, the water sloshing as Merlin trips on a stone. Arthur smiles against his lips.

“Always the clumsy fool.” Merlin doesn’t miss the fondness in his voice that reveals that Arthur wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Admit it. You love that about me.”

“Maybe, but-“

Merlin licks the words right out of his mouth, too interested in the slick slide of tongues that is turning nastier by the minute. They share kisses that are interrupted by feral groans and hisses for more and closer and _be mine._

_Please be mine._

Merlin may have said that aloud, as he can feel and hear Arthur’s words against his tongue and teeth. “Yours, Merlin. Always yours.”

And how can Merlin _not_ give the remaining pieces of himself to his Prince when he talks like that? He’d be a fool to try to fight it.

And he’d be a fool to not let his hands drift to Arthur’s chest and hips, the drying water on their skin somehow making his touch rougher and slightly more desperate. And he’d be a fool not to moan into Arthur’s mouth as he palms his groin and rubs and coaxes Merlin’s hips into jerking forward of their own accord, seeking friction. But he’d be more foolish not to laugh against Arthur’s mouth as he suddenly walks backwards, his lips never leaving Merlin’s as they trudge through the water, before lifting Merlin up, wrapping his legs around his waist, his hands squeezing his ass, holding him up, and walking towards the shore. And Merlin would be an idiot not to keep chasing the pressure he so desperately wants, so he circles his hips in small motions, and his hands thread through Arthur’s hair. He must catch Arthur off guard, because his breath hitches and he stumbles and falls to the ground, pulling Merlin down on top of him and getting the wind knocked out of him.

But now their groins are slotted together nicely, and Merlin grins wickedly as he suddenly rolls his hips, enjoying the way Arthur’s eyes close and his mouth falls open, letting out the low rumblings in his chest that can only stem from keeping whatever this is in for too long.

So he keeps doing it, if only to keep Arthur looking like that, to be able to watch him fall and crash and burn because of him. His hands travel down Arthur’s chest and Arthur’s hands reach up to grip Merlin’s hips, pulling him closer and arching up to meet his pace. The wet breeches give a heavier friction, a dirtier and more urgent drag as they rut together, breaths hitching and cheeks colouring.

 And then he gets the angle just right and Arthur’s eyes fly open as he gasps, “Oh God, fuck.” After that it doesn’t take many thrusts before they moan each other’s names, forcing them out from lungs that are short of breath and bodies that still feel leaden from the oppressive lake water that is slowly evaporating from their skin.

Merlin falls forward onto Arthur’s chest, kissing his mouth sloppily and mouthing his way down his jaw before resting in the crook of his neck.

Their heartbeats have slowed to match one another, and their hair is almost dry when Merlin eventually asks. “What will happen when we go back?”

He’s afraid of the answer, but he has to know whether he has to harden his heartstrings before returning to their everyday lives that constantly overlap.

But all his heartstrings do is sing as Arthur kisses his head affectionately, saying, “Something. Nothing. Does it matter?”

Does it really matter?

“Yes,” Merlin decides. “It does.”

Arthur reaches up to thread his fingers through Merlin’s hair, mimicking how he’d carded Arthur’s locks just a few hours ago. “I guess that’s the good thing. Anything can happen.”

There’s no going back now. They both know it. This can’t be downplayed as nothing but an accident, a moment of weakness induced by too much time in the sun. The crystal waters must have cleansed them of doubt and timidity, washing not only away sweat and dirt, but also years of old touches that had at the time meant nothing, creating a clean slate on which to make permanent marks.

There’s no going back now.

Because in the heat and hazy tranquillity of summer days, anything can happen.

 


End file.
